


shakespeare is overrated

by TheBlackestFrost



Category: American Gods (TV)
Genre: But also that was dumb, F/M, SPOILERS S3 E1, So lets fix it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:14:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28907661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBlackestFrost/pseuds/TheBlackestFrost
Summary: Maman Brigitte watches the Dead Girl leave with her trolley full of Dead God and smiles before reaching into the folds of her skirt and pulling out her phone.“It’s done.”Her husband huffs, likely moving crates of beer as he speaks.“She bought it?”
Relationships: Baron Samedi/Maman Birgitte, Laura Moon/Mad Sweeney
Comments: 14
Kudos: 74





	shakespeare is overrated

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm not watching s3 personally. But the gifsets are good for peeking.
> 
> Put this one in my basket of 'only logical explanations plus a little hope'. Love to Ettume for the ideas and mutual frustration.

**A bright afternoon in New Orleans**

Maman Brigitte watches the Dead Girl leave with her trolley full of Dead God and smiles before reaching into the folds of her skirt and pulling out her phone.

“It’s done.”

Her husband huffs, likely moving crates of beer as he speaks.

“She bought it?”

“Told her you failed.”

“You wound me, chere.”

She smiles.

“Told her you were at a family reunion…in Hileah.”

He is silent for a moment before letting out a bark of laughter.

“She thinks we have family reunions in Florida?”

Brigitte shrugs.

“Gotta have my fun.”

“Woman, you are too fuckin’ much.”

“I know…but she’ll believe what she wants at this point.”

Another grunt and the tinkle of bottles rocking gently against one another.

“Where’d you end up stashing him?”

“You know that alley we found him in back in ‘73?”

“The one where he was dressed like a-“

“Yup, that one.”

“Right…”

“There…in a shopping cart…under a used mattress.”

Baron Samedi exhales a low whistle.

“An’ she believed that?”

There’s a defensive, insulted undertone to his words and Brigitte can’t help but share his consternation at the Dead Girl’s willingness to believe such a lie. As if they hadn’t spent the last three months guarding over him, keeping him clean and tended to.

To think that Death Loa would treat the dead, any dead, like old garbage.

Let alone _him_.

Brigitte sighs.

“Samedi, she needed to feel like there was no other avenue. Couldn’t have her pickin’ him up from the bar and haranguing you ‘bout bringin’ him back. Three months an’ she still ain’t taken her fuckin’ potion.”

She’s getting pissed, her tone rising, and he keeps his calm.

“I know, chere. I know.”

They are both silent for a moment before Brigitte speaks again, more quietly this time.

“She needs to make the choice, needs to take his blood, drink her potion, and hand back the coin freely. She needs to believe. Ain’t nothin’ more we can do, you know that.”

They know each other too well; she can almost see him nodding, see him staring out the window at the fading sunset with frustration and hope.

“You sure this’ll work, chere?”

“Oui baby, I’m sure.”

“How sure?”

She smiles.

“Dinner? Winner has to cook bare.”

His tone drops, dark and hungry, and she bites her lip. She loves a good bet.

“Bon, d’accord.”

**3 hours later – a crypt in New Orleans**

Brigitte sighs.

“Fuck.”

She strokes a hand absentmindedly over the sharpie inked corpse on top of the crypt, noting the large hand swung over the edge. She follows the line of it and rounds the corner slowly, noting the glint of gold in the corner, rolled away rolled away rolled away from home.

As she stares at the pile of dust on the floor of the mausoleum Brigitte stifles the urge to leave and close the door behind her.

Quite frankly no one this stubborn should be brought back.

Instead she pulls out her phone and dials, putting it on speaker.

“Looks like she decided to hand the coin over…”

“Well that’s-“

“… _before_ takin’ her potion.”

The silence on the other end of the line stretches so long she’d wonder if she’s lost signal.

She waits and when Samedi speaks his voice is tight with shock and disbelief.

“She gave it up… _before_.”

“Yes.”

“So she’s…”

“Ready for vacuuming up.”

“And you’re…”

“Missin’ out on a homecooked meal.”

Brigitte sets the phone on Sweeney’s chest and kneels down slowly, carefully picking up the tiny bottle on the floor, trying to avoid disturbing the dusted remains. She should sneeze, or blow, or just fan it.

It would serve the Lil Bit right for this nonsense.

Instead she stands slowly, taking the knife and using it to nick the corpse’s finger.

The blood gathers, coagulating but not completely clotted, and she brings the bottle to his fingertip.

_“Resurrecting a god isn’t as easy as you’d think. Especially when no one believes in him anymore.”_

And wasn’t that interesting, the lost hill spirit fallen king returning as an oversized but _godly_ corpse?

Somewhere between their little post-coital spat and being speared, he’d found himself. He’d remembered enough, just enough, to pull himself to full and true glory.

And then…

_“Good news is, Sweeney’s pretty well preserved. If he didn’t have god energy he’d be a puddle of Irish stew by now.”_

Delivered to their doorstep, a Dead Girl hauling his massive decaying heap up the road with just enough belief behind her to hold him together.

Maman Brigitte grits her teeth.

She’d told the Dead Girl everything she needed to know. 

_La sangue d’lamour._

Fuck.

Samedi’s voice fills the crypt.

“What was she thinkin’ of holdin’ out for? She think a Disney prince was comin’ along for her?”

He pauses to click his tongue irritably, a habit he reserves for when he’s searching for his lighter, and sure enough the snap of a zippo echoes around the crypt.

“Girl gave up her damn truth for that potion, she couldn’t even listen to it long enough to use the blood in front of her?”

Brigitte stares at the pile of ashes, unable to respond.

The angry, spitting little thing that had arrived with Sweeney all that time ago would never have hung around for three months waiting and hoping without word. She’d probably have given it a shot at least, tried her potion, tried to bring him back, or at least camped out at Coq Noir and annoyed them endlessly.

“I think…I think she thought this might be easier.”

The Loa wants to feel angry but is instead left with sadness, wondering whether the girl had any idea how Sweeney’s death really affected her. Wondering whether the girl really even recognised her own loneliness, really felt her grief, or if she’d spent three months lying and pretending she didn’t care.

It was the latter, it seems.

“Well, what’s the plan then chere?”

The bottle in Brigitte’s hand is warming up as Sweeney’s blood combines with the potion. She straightens, carefully tracing the path of the coin and plucking it from the ground before it can disappear into a sewer or worse.

She stares at the potion and the coin.

She could leave it.

Leave them to this quiet Romeo and Juliet parody nonsense.

Leave the girl to her rest and the God to his decay and the wind.

She closes her eyes and sighs before turning and walking purposefully back towards the two of them.

On the other end of the line Baron Samedi lets out a chuckle.

Maman Brigitte never did like Shakespeare.


End file.
